The Coast-to-Coast Murders

by J. D. Barker

  Megan said, “I’ve got addresses for both Nicole Milligan and Jeffery Longtin. Dr. Rose had them.”

  “Text them to me.”

  “No way.”

  “Come on, Meg. We don’t have time for this.”

  “You stay put. I’ll come to you, and we’ll go together.”

  I couldn’t drag her deeper into this.

  Another stab of pain, behind my left eye. “People are dying, Meg. Whoever is doing this…I don’t want you anywhere near it.”

  Megan went quiet for a little bit, then said, “Remember when we were kids, when I used to have that nightmare all the time? Seemed like every night for nearly a year. Guess I was around five.”

  I nodded. “The man with the yellow eyes. You thought he lived in the tree outside your window. You used to say you could hear him scratching at the glass. If your window got foggy, you swore it was him. His arms were so long he could reach inside the house and scoop you right out of your bed.”

  “I’d hide from him. I’d come to your room and spend the night with you. You’d hold my hand and tell me you’d never let anything hurt me. You said you wouldn’t let go even if he tried to pull me away. He’d have to take both of us.”

  “I remember.”

  Megan said, “You’ve always been there for me. Let me be there for you. Don’t shut me out. Not now.”

  “Meg, it’s too dangerous.”

  “Stop saying that. Either you meet me or you figure out all this bullshit on your own. Let me help you.”

  I closed my eyes again, shut out the light. The pain came back with a vengeance, like a two-by-four to the side of my head. I nearly dropped the phone. My knees almost buckled. “I can’t risk losing you, Meg. You’re all I have. I need to know you’re someplace safe. That’s how you help me. That’s how you hold my hand.” I opened my eyes.

  Megan went quiet again.

  “Meg?”

  “I’m so worried about you.”

  “I know.”

  Neither of us said anything for a long while.

  My phone dinged with a text message. An address in Arizona. “Which one is that?” I asked.

  “Can you get there?”

  I was sweating. My palms and face were slick with it. I remembered the bottle of Excedrin Migraine in my pants pocket. “Yeah, I think so. Which one is it?”

  “Neither,” Megan said. “It’s where you meet me. Call me when you’re close.”

  Megan hung up before I could reply.

  My head buzzed with pain. I set the phone down and nearly missed the table. I pushed it back from the edge.

  With each step I took across the room, the pain behind my eyes intensified. Each footfall was a hammer hitting the inside of my skull, cracking against the bone, building pressure.

  I stumbled to my discarded clothes, fumbled with the pants. They were wet, sticky. My shirt too. My fingers found the pocket, the bottle of migraine medicine. I took it out, nearly bit off the childproof cap when I couldn’t get hold of it. Finally, I got it off and pushed three pills into my mouth.

  The bottle fell from my hand, dropped to the ground, pills spilling everywhere. My clothes, my hands, were covered in blood.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Written Statement, Megan Fitzgerald

  Michael couldn’t do this alone, you get that, right, Jessica? He was already making a huge mess of everything. We look out for each other. So, yeah, I stuck it to Dr. Rose. Borrowed some things. I mean, she gave me her keys. I always knew those two were hiding something from us. And he didn’t sound good. Not at all. You wouldn’t abandon your brother, right? When he was hurting? I couldn’t either.

  I hung up with Michael, forced a smile on my face, and turned back to Roy, the twenty-something guy manning the airport’s Sharper Image counter who had taken the opportunity to stare at my legs. I had to admit, they were looking nice in my new Tahari sundress and Christian Louboutin heels.

  “Sounded intense,” he said, remembering where my face was. “Boyfriend?”

  Subtle. “Brother.”

  He nodded slowly. “I’ve got a little sister; she can be a pain too. If you’d like to talk about it, I’m off at midnight.”

  We were standing in the far back corner of the store, beyond the massaging chairs and travel cases that looked strong enough to take a bullet. I watched as he unlocked the glass cabinet and removed a small box. He handed it to me. “This is the only cassette player we still carry. It’s meant to plug into a computer so you can convert tapes to digital. There’s a cheap pair of headphones in the box—they’re okay for voice stuff. I’ve got better ones if you’re planning on listening to music.”

  “Just listening to some lectures.”

  “Thought maybe your boyfriend went old school and made you a mixtape.” He grinned.

  My legs must have looked even better than I’d thought. I returned the grin. No reason to be rude—he was kinda cute.

  I followed him back to the counter, watched him ring me up. “That’s thirty-one dollars and twenty-two cents.”

  I pulled a credit card from my new purse, accidentally dropping a checkbook in the process.

  Roy picked it up and glanced at it before giving it back to me. “Dr. Rose Fitzgerald?” His eyes narrowed mischievously as he took the credit card—also in the name of Rose Fitzgerald—and ran it through the machine. “You look a little young to be a doctor. Mind if I see your ID?”

  “I’m a bit of an overachiever, I suppose.” I handed him my driver’s license.

  “‘Megan Rose Fitzgerald,’” he read aloud. “That’s a beautiful name.” He gave the license and the credit card back to me. “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl. I don’t suppose you’d like to get coffee sometime?”

  I smiled, tilted my head. “If you upgrade my headphones, I’ll give it some serious thought, Roy.”

  Five minutes later, I was in a seat at gate 11, reading the instructions for my new cassette player and the pair of Bose noise-canceling headphones Roy had slipped into my bag. Considering it was nearly midnight, the terminal was pretty crowded. I had my backpack on the seat to my right and Michael’s file spread out on the seat to my left.

  I’d gotten to the airport at about half past ten and left Dr. Rose’s Mercedes in a handicapped-only spot on the top floor of the parking garage with the keys in the ignition. Fuck her.

  Once inside the airport, I began hitting the ATMs. I withdrew the maximum amount of cash I could from each of Dr. Rose’s credit and debit cards, thirty-three hundred dollars in total. Who uses her own birthday for a PIN code? Double fuck her.

  From there, I purchased a one-way ticket to Flagstaff with cash. This set me back two hundred eighty-three dollars and fifteen cents. The cops could probably still trace me if they wanted to, but I figured using cash would slow them down a bit. I knew Michael would meet me; I didn’t plan to give him a choice.

  Ticket in hand, with nearly an hour before my flight, I hit the shops. I got a nice Tumi bag from Luggage Etc.; jeans, blouses, and undergarments from Airport Express; several dresses (including the one Roy admired), shoes, and a watch from Montauges. Each time someone rang up the card, I expected a problem—some kind of security flag—but that didn’t happen. Dr. Rose routinely shopped at airports; I suppose that was enough to prevent a security alert. Triple fuck her.

  By the time I heard my flight called over the loudspeaker, I had read most of Michael’s file.

  Fragile. Dr. Bart had used that word more than once.

  Some parts were more horrifying than I’d expected. I thought Michael had told me everything.

  When boarding started, I shoved the papers into my backpack. I kept the three cassette tapes that had been in there along with my new tape player and headphones—I’d listen to those on the trip.

  As I followed the line of passengers to the plane, I blew a kiss in Roy’s general direction. Maybe I’d thank him when I got back, maybe not. I was sure he’d be there waiting for me either way.

 
Chapter Forty-Six

  Michael

  My heart raced.

  I stared down at the clothes in my hand. A part of me believed that if I wished for it, the blood would vanish, and this would prove to be some kind of hallucination, something related to the headaches. The blood didn’t disappear, though. A coppery scent drifted up, filling my nostrils, and the hammer in my head beat away.

  The pants and shirt were soaked, primarily in the front. I glanced down at my bare chest, and even in the dim light, I didn’t see any blood. Most likely, I’d cleaned up before getting in bed, but I had no memory of it.

  Several minutes ticked by, me on the floor, cradling my soiled clothing, before I finally found the will to stand and make my way to the bathroom sink.

  I didn’t turn on the light. I twisted the faucet and scrubbed my hands in the icy water. The blood was stubborn but eventually came off. I cupped water in my palms and brought it to my face, then ran my hands through my hair.

  When I finally looked at myself in the mirror, I saw someone else, someone I didn’t want to know. I squeezed my eyes shut again, forced myself to calm down.

  Eyes still closed, I fumbled for the switch on the wall, flicked on the lights.

  I opened my eyes again, slowly, afraid of the pain sometimes brought on by the light.

  Better, though. A little better. The Excedrin was finally helping.

  That’s when I saw the bathtub to my right, next to the toilet.

  Water filled it nearly to the rim.

  A lone feather floated on the surface.

  And beneath the surface—

  Oh God…

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Michael

  I thought it was a woman.

  My mind somehow took in what was there and filled in the gaps—long legs, the curve of slender hips and waist, a flat stomach. Brown hair floating around a beautiful, angelic face and neck.

  I even saw her watching me, bright blue eyes staring up from beneath the surface. A full mouth parted slightly, prepared to whisper, yet silent forever.

  I saw her fingers splayed at her sides, her arms gently floating in the still water.

  I saw all of this in what must have been a split second although it felt like an hour, a lifetime.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  The hammer in my head thumped with a newfound frenzy.

  My heart beat against my rib cage, threatened to explode.

  When I opened my eyes again, when I forced myself to look into that bathtub, I realized it wasn’t a woman there floating in the water beneath that feather; it was women’s clothing—jeans, a white V-neck sweater, black panties, and a matching lacy black bra. All laid out in the perfectly still water. Pinned to the sweater, shimmering beneath the surface, was a plastic name tag that read MOLLY.

  The name tag contained only a first name. No surname, no company name, nothing to identify where she worked.

  Molly.

  The feather floated lazily past the place her head belonged, across her invisible cheek.

  The exhaust fan, which had come on with the bathroom light, whirred above me. Not the steady, even drone of a new fan but the click-filled choking of an old one.

  Had I done this?

  Had I hurt this person? This Molly?

  I knew nobody by that name. I didn’t remember meeting anyone recently with that name, but that didn’t mean much, not with the blackouts and headaches.

  Where was Molly?

  At some point I had gone to my knees, but like so much else, I didn’t remember the movement. I remembered turning on the light, grabbing the door frame for support, but not falling to my knees. But there I was, on the floor next to the bathtub.

  An odd thought popped into my head at that moment, a question I had no answer to, one nearly as perplexing as Molly’s missing body: Where are her shoes?

  White canvas sneakers. Molly was wearing white canvas sneakers.

  Somehow, I was as sure of this as I was about her brown hair, the slight pucker of her lips on the left side as they curled up in a smile, the flirtatious tilt of her head.

  She had stood on her left leg for a second while scratching at her right calf with the tip of her white canvas shoe. Then she settled back, cocking her hip to the side.

  No! I knew nobody named Molly, had never met anyone named Molly. This was my brain playing tricks on me. Filling in gaps, making things whole. My mind wasn’t willing to accept the missing time and was crafting a narrative all its own—a fiction was better than nothing at all.

  Molly had the cutest laugh. This light chuckle.

  No!

  I forced myself to stand. I pushed these thoughts out of my head and searched the room. There wasn’t much to search. From the sink, I could see nearly every square inch, but I wandered around anyway. I lifted the mattress and found nothing. I pulled back the sheets, expecting to find blood, but there was none. I lowered myself onto the orange shag carpet and looked under the bed—nothing but ancient dust bunnies and cobwebs.

  No body.

  No Molly.

  No missing shoes.

  Not in the room, no.

  I went to the window, pulled the curtain aside.

  I had backed my Porsche into the parking space. From the window, I faced the tail end. Still, I could see enough of the front seat through the rear window to know it was empty. The car had two trunks, one in the front, one in the back, but neither was big enough to hold more than a suitcase or two. Even if I’d wanted to hide a body in there, God forbid, I couldn’t have. There was no room.

  Not a whole body, anyway.

  I shook this thought out of my head.

  Somebody was trying to frame me. This was no different than Alyssa Tepper in the bathroom back in my apartment. Somebody had drugged me, staged the room, bloodied my clothing. Nothing else made sense.

  Somebody was fucking with me.

  As if in response, the hammer in my head took another whack at my skull. It was fading, though, the hand holding that hammer growing weak.

  Whatever this was, I needed to clean it up. I knew that, and before I could change my mind, I pulled the plastic trash bag from the can next to the table, crossed the room, and stuffed my soiled clothes inside.

  In the bathroom, I drained the tub and placed those clothes in the bag too, along with the feather. I soaked a washcloth and then wiped every inch of the bathroom—the tub, the tile walls, the toilet, even the floor. After that, I wiped down the counter, the nightstand, the doorknob, and the various locks.

  Back at the table, I threw the packaging from the disposable phone into the bag, then got dressed with clothes I pulled from my duffel bag—jeans, a Boston Celtics sweatshirt, and a matching ball cap. I moved the bag to the floor near the door, placed my keys and the disposable phone on top of it, then wiped down the table too.

  By the time I finished, the rag was filthy black with grime. The room hadn’t really been cleaned for months, or possibly years. I thought about all the DNA on that rag from who knew how many visitors that was now spread all over the room, and I was perfectly okay with that.

  With one more look out the window to confirm the parking lot was still deserted, I used the tail of my sweatshirt to open the door, careful not to leave prints. I placed my duffel and the trash bag in the trunk and slammed it shut.

  I climbed into the driver’s seat and tossed the phone beside me.

  On the floor of the passenger side were two white canvas shoes, one missing the laces.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Dobbs

  They arrived in Needles a little under two hours later; the Bell 407 helicopter landed in the far corner of a Days Inn parking lot two blocks south of the police station. Two uniformed deputies stood by two police cruisers waiting for them.

  They had a possible ID on Kepler’s car. Neighbor had seen it—black sports car, old. Possibly an MG, Fiat, Porsche, Karmann Ghia…not much to go on, but something. They’d put out a tristate BOLO from the air.

>   Gimble was out the door the moment they touched the ground. The rotor blast kicked up dirt, dust, and sand and slapped her ponytail against her back, shoulders, and face. She ignored it and ran at a crouch toward the cruisers.

  As Dobbs got out, he shielded his eyes and took in the surroundings. It looked to him like the Mojave had started to reclaim this small town years ago, gotten distracted, and left but planned to return soon enough to finish the job. The few buildings he could see were in desperate need of a coat of paint. The cars in the parking lot were ten years past their prime, as were the handful of people who stepped outside at the late hour to find out what all the hubbub was about.

  Dobbs grabbed one CSI case, Begley took the other, and they both chased after Gimble.

  When the three of them reached the deputies, the older of the two officers shook their hands. “I’m Deputy Ben Labrum. That there is Cole Bulloch. Sorry you had to land so far from the crime scene here. The golf course is much closer, but we couldn’t get clearance on account of the time of night and it being residential.”

  “How far away are we?”

  “Five, maybe ten minutes at most,” he replied. “Let’s get loaded up. Cole and I will get you out there as quick as we can.”

  Deputy Bulloch nodded at the three of them and opened the trunk of his cruiser.

  The drive took seven minutes with lights flashing, sirens off.

  They raced down the narrow streets at nearly twice the posted speed limit, bouncing over speed bumps fast enough for Dobbs to bang his head on the ceiling of the cruiser—he hadn’t fastened his seat belt. Deputy Labrum took a hard left onto Dunes Road and finally slowed down. He came to a stop about half a block from the crime scene, unable to get any closer. Dobbs stepped out of the car and counted two more sheriff vehicles, three from the state police, an ambulance, a fire truck, and a van from the coroner’s office. There were also two television vans, satellite antennas up, and at least two dozen residents standing around in the nearby yards. A few had even set up chairs and tables to take in the spectacle. The entire area had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape, and large floodlights were positioned all around the small, run-down mobile home at 78 Dunes Road.